


printemps

by keijitrash



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, Gen, Inspired by Shigatsu wa Kimi no Uso | Your lie in April, M/M, Pianist Matsukawa Issei, Violinist Hanamaki Takahiro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:34:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26443504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keijitrash/pseuds/keijitrash
Summary: matsukawa’s life had three movements - the first was one with his mother, the second one begins when he hears the sound of a melodica being played in the park, and the third one starts after he receives a letter from hanamaki's parents.
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro & Matsukawa Issei, Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	printemps

Matsukawa Issei has never played the piano for himself.

When he picked up the instrument as a child, he’d done so to make his mother proud. He relished in the way her eyes brightened whenever he played for her, preened at the compliments from other people who’d encouraged him to do recitals and join competitions, and felt comfort in being able to express emotions through eighty eight keys.

But when his mother passed on, so did his reason to play.

(His world had become nothing but monochromatic greys; lifeless and dull. And the music that came from him when fingers pressed on keys sounded of nothing but grief.)

(He did not want the world to hear of his mourning.)

Then, on the spring of his last year in junior high school, colors began to seep back into his word.

* * *

Matsukawa’s life had three movements.

The first was one with his mother.

The second one begins when he hears the sound of a melodica being played in the park.

(The unfamiliar tune causes his heart to flutter in his chest. His eyes gleam with curiosity, and his lips part to breathe.)

Matsukawa doesn’t think when he walks towards the sound of music. He lets his feet take him there, and his ears pick up every note and carve it into his head. When the melody is repeated, he thinks he could play it again on the piano if he wanted to.

(But it’s been years since nimble fingers even brushed the black and white keys of the Steinway sitting in his living room.)

And then there – standing on a dome playing a harmonica with his eyes closed and his body swaying to the tune – is a boy his age with hair the same color as the petals of cherry blossoms that’s blowing down from the trees and onto the ground like snow.

Matsukawa could only stand and stare, even after the music stops, with _something_ gleaming in his eyes – an emotion that even he’s not sure what is.

The boy hops down from the dome and catches him looking.

Recognition flashes in his face.

“Matsukawa Issei?”

But Matsukawa has _no idea_ who this person is or might be.

Hanamaki Takahiro plays several instruments but mainly does the violin. Matsukawa’s only ever been on solo competitions, so he scratches the nape of his neck and apologizes because he doesn’t know who Hanamaki is.

“It’s fine,” the pink haired boy assures him with a smile. “I’m not that well known like you are.”

There’s lightness in Matsukawa’s chest as they continue to talk about what was his past and what is still Hanamaki’s present. He hasn’t talked with anyone about music since he stopped going to competitions. And though he _has_ friends, Iwaizumi and Oikawa are more likely to sleep in the middle of a concerto more than anything.

(They don’t even have the slightest clue about what the word means.)

“Did you compose that yourself?” Matsukawa finds himself asking, referring to the music the pink haired boy played on his melodica. Hanamaki is grinning proudly when he answers yes. “It’s...beautiful.”

_(And happy, and it made me feel like spring was inside me._ But Matsukawa loses to his nervousness and sticks with _beautiful_.)

“Thank you,” Hanamaki runs a finger against his melodica, “it’s the first time I've ever played it.”

At these words, something _clicks_ – maybe it’s the cogs of fate turning, or maybe it’s their lives being linked together after this one encounter of theirs. Matsukawa doesn’t know. But his heart does something weird in his chest and his eyes can’t help but focus solely on him and nothing else.

He gives Hanamaki a smile.

(Color bursts back into his world in streaks of green and pink and blue and Matsukawa suddenly feels _alive_.)

.

_A famous violinist once said: music transcends words. By exchanging notes, you get to know one another, to understand one another. As if your souls were connected and your hearts were overlapping. It's a conversation through instruments._

.

When Matsukawa agrees to become Hanamaki’s accompanist, he understands that it means so much more than just something asked out of convenience. It’s not as simple as _I’m a violinist, you’re a pianist – let’s do this together_.

There is trust mixed into it. The kind where Hanamaki is _sure_ that Matsukawa will be able to play in synchrony with him; to paint the same image and deliver the same emotion together with the music they’ll play.

It’s the kind of trust that you share with someone who you’d risk your life for.

(And with this trust, the music they produce touch souls.)

Hanamaki jokes about how Matsukawa doesn’t sound like he hasn’t played in a long time. Matsukawa tells him that it’s probably because playing has been ingrained in his muscles – it’s something he can’t really let go of, even when he’d wanted to after his mother’s death. Hanamaki opens his mouth to say something, but shuts it again when nothing comes out.

What is there for him to say?

“It’s fine,” Matsukawa assures him. He looks at Hanamaki with a smile and adds, “This time, you’re the one I’ll play for.”

Hanamaki smiles back at him but doesn’t say a word.

(If they were a little closer then – if Matsukawa could read the emotions in Hanamaki’s eyes – then he would’ve noticed the pain flash in his irises at his words.)

(But they were not.)

(So for three more rounds in the competition, Matsukawa remained oblivious.)

* * *

In his eyes, it all happens in slow motion.

They finish Kreisler’s piece, smile at the audience and the judges, and receive a warm round of applause - then he falls. _Hanamaki_ falls. Fall might not even be the right word in this kind of situation – no - the pink haired boy who Matsukawa played Viennese Rhapsodic Fantasietta with and made it sound like his own _collapses._

His knees buck, his eyes go wide, and only a breath manages to escape his mouth before he crumples on the floor.

Matsukawa freezes in his seat, hands clenching his knees.

_He couldn’t make himself stand._

He hears the audible gasps from the crowd, the shouts from the judges... He sees medics run up the stage and carry Hanamaki out of the auditorium in a stretcher, saying words that pass from one ear to another... Still, he remains rooted in place; hands cold, sweat dripping from the sides of his face.

Suddenly the spotlights are too bright.

The noises are too loud.

Iwaizumi and Oikawa rushing too his side is too much contact.

(Suddenly, everything is too much.)

“Mattsun—”

Matsukawa hears nothing but static.

* * *

When he finds the courage to visit Hanamaki, the violinist’s once cherry-colored hair has turned shades paler. They used to remind him of spring – bright and warm – but now it just hurts to look at.

Matsukawa sits by Hanamaki’s bed, silent.

“Matsukawa.”

(Gods...Hanamaki’s voice is barely a whisper and _it hurts_.)

“Matsukawa, look at me please.”

(Matsukawa _can’t_.)

But he does, and he finds himself gripping onto his chair until his knuckles turn white and his hands start to tremble.

“You have to keep playing,” Hanamaki says – his eyes lit with determination, though weak. “ _Please_. If not for yourself, then play for _me_.”

_Isn’t that a lot to ask for?_ Matsukawa wants to ask with a laugh, _Isn’t that selfish of you? To ask me to play – your accompanist – when you’re here, lying in bed, with all those machines attached to you._

But all he says is “okay” in the softest of voices.

And Hanamaki smiles.

.

Matsukawa’s life had three movements.

The first was one with his mother.

The second one begins when he hears the sound of a melodica being played in the park, and ends with Hanamaki holding his hand.

The third one starts after he receives a letter from Hanamaki’s parents.

It says:

_Dear Matsukawa Issei,_

_I saw you in a piano recital for my school’s field trip when I was five. You were probably smaller than I was then – and you didn’t seem like the person who would be on stage, even if you were dressed for it._

_The piano seemed too big for you – your arms too small to reach all the keys, and your legs too far from the pedals – but the moment you began to play, I found myself drawn in._

_It was like watching someone paint a picture, but with music instead of a brush; a melody instead of a canvas, a harmony instead of paint._

_I remember the woman beside me started to cry. I never expected music to be able to do that._

_But then you gave up the piano. I don’t dare to assume what your reasons were, but when I heard the news, it broke my heart. I had just started to play the violin, hoping to meet you in that same auditorium one day – waiting with you in the back room to be called on stage. But I was a heartbeat too late._

_So when I met you again in the park, I was ecstatic._

_I took the chance to ask you to be my accompanist out of greed. It was one of the things I wanted to accomplish before I wind up in the hospital again – and somehow I felt more alive than I ever was when you said yes._

_I’m sorry for never telling you about this. About my sickness._

_I didn’t want pity from you, of all people. I didn’t want you to be on stage with me just because you feel sorry that each time I play might be the last. And you can hate me for that, Matsukawa._

_But I’ll always cherish every second we played together on that stage._

_There is one thing I could never find the strength to tell you, though, and now might be the worst time to say it but you deserve to know._

_Matsukawa Issei, I love you._

_From the moment you played that note in the auditorium on my field trip, and up until now. I have loved you for so long, at first it had been for music alone. But when we met, I began to love you as a person too._

_So I love you, Matsukawa Issei._

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I wonder my music reached your ears when we played? I hope it did. And I hope you’ll never forget those few times that we were able to play together._

_Remember me sometimes, okay?_

_I’m sorry for never having the heart to tell you all this personally._

_~ Hanamaki Takahiro_

And Matsukawa reads the letter again and again and again. Until its edges are worn, until the paper has marks on where he’d touched it for too long; until the tears he’d shed while reading paint the bottom of the page like droplets of paint.

* * *

Matsukawa Issei has never played the piano for himself.

He takes his position behind the piano keys, feet hovering close to the pedals of the Steinway, and takes in a breath. Closing his eyes, he mutters the same words he’d heard a certain cherry haired boy from his past say before they would play their piece.

_“Elohim, Essaim, Elohim, Essaim I implore you.”_

He never found the chance to ask what it meant – never found the meaning behind the words – still he says it anyway.

To remember Hanamaki Takahiro by. To remember the man who he would be an accompanist for.

“I kept my promise, Hanamaki.”

(Matsukawa begins to play, his fingers dancing against the keys, body swaying along with the music.)

_I remembered you._

(He plays a piece unknown to the audience. It’s the same happy tune he’d heart Hanamaki play when they first met in the park – the song on the cherry haired boy’s melodica.)

(The piece had been given to him along with the letter.)

(And when he first held it in his hands, Matsukawa failed to see the little note scribbled at the bottom of the first page.)

(It said – _to remember me by._ )

_And I continue to play for you._

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! I'd love to hear your comments and reviews below!! ❤
> 
> Check me out on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wyannyin) where I'm more active in writing twtfics


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